On Wednesday I faked a business lunch with a client, knocked off early for the afternoon and went down to the garment district to meet Graburn. Once a week near the Long Beach port, vendors sold art smuggled in from abroad. Commercial shipping lines often supplemented their revenue by packing small-scale objets d’art into the nooks and crannies of unused storage space on the freighters that brought produce up from the mini-countries to the south or brought cars from humid East Asian factories, and these objects regularly appeared at the Long Beach flea market. Partially in defiance of his critics’ assumptions as to his unrefined taste, following his initial financial success Graburn had crafted himself as an expert collector of third world art.

When I arrived Graburn was fully absorbed, examining a display of Guatemalan worry dolls on a rectangular folding table. Made from colorful string wrapped around wire armatures, the dolls had tiny price tags pressed over their eyes like little blindfolds; their wire arms groping blindly outward. Graburn picked one up, pointed it at me and, well within earshot of the vendor, demanded, "Promise me you'll never buy this kind of junk." He tossed it back onto the table where it skittered across the faux wood laminate and collided with its cohorts.

Reflexively, he snapped his head back to look at me and flicked the collar of my shirt. "What the hell are you wearing, man?" Vic demanded, "You've got to dress down for something like this. You show up wearing that monkey suit and suddenly all these guys are going to double their prices." Hair furred the V exposed by the unlatched top button of his short sleeved pink shirt. I hadn't thought to change after working the morning at the firm.

Graburn was so square jawed, that his flared, expansive mandible obscured all but the outermost edges of his ears. His skin was the pink stucco of beachfront property and now it was baking in the sun-starched corrugated tin alleyways of the garment district. I am the owner of a deep and abiding tan and the skin that is stretched taut across my cheek bones is an extra shade darker. I wasn't fazed by the sun's nuclear gift.

Vic walked past a police barricade blocking off the next intersection and I followed him into the crowd browsing down the center of the narrow, closed off street. Vendors had built PVC tubing structures covered with acrylic tarps onto the backsides of their mini-vans and hatchbacks to create sales booths. Battery powered dogs chirped amidst the bogus jewelry and plastic watches. A woman sold hand drums ranging in size from about that of a coffee can to nearly that of a 42 gallon barrel of oil. Graburn feigned licking his finger and pressed it against one of a tableful of, presumably stolen, outmoded cell phones. "Sssss!" he said and jerked his hand back, waggling his pretend burnt finger at me with a mock sorrowful expression and then grinned.

Graburn held up a carved wooden crescent shape from a grid of trinkets arranged across a fabric-draped display table. "See this? It’s a ceremonial dagger,” he said, pulling the knife from its sheath and running his finger along its edge. “It’s not for cutting or stabbing, the blade is intentionally dull.” He flipped the iron knife’s wooden holster over in his hand. “This one was clearly designed for export sales and tourists. Observe the cross-hatched pattern on its sheath: loose, sloppy. The authentic carving would have a tighter, more intricate pattern. When the Igbo make daggers for their own community, the stipple pattern interlaces itself again and again. Cultural artifacts made for export, such as this, are, more often than not, worthless––caricatures of themselves, built on broad comedy and broader brushstrokes.”

He handed over his Visa and there was the crack of a pre-electronic carbon paper machine. I was confused that he would purchase an item which he had just critiqued as trash and sent him a questioning look. "It's a gift for the senior v.p. for west coast marketing and publicity,” he explained. “He might be able to tell the difference between a good and bad billboard location, but he’s not the type that can appraise the quality of traditional sub-Saharan craftwork. You don’t serve beluga caviar at pre-school snack time.” Pressing his finger against the tip of the knife, he added, “This one does have one added tourist attraction: the point is razor sharp. He can use it as a letter opener."